


Because it's not love (but it's still a feeling)

by ladyvivien



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Affairs, Dirty Talk, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Fisting, Hand Jobs, Hotels, Older Woman/Younger Man, Oral Sex, They have sex instead of talking about their feelings, They're quite fond of each other really but sssh don't tell anyone, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/ladyvivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He nearly got killed, she nearly got fired, the world came within spitting distance of Armageddon.</p><p>Just another day at the office, then. And when they have a day like that, somehow they always end up like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because it's not love (but it's still a feeling)

He nearly got killed, she nearly got fired, the world came within spitting distance of Armageddon.

Just another day at the office, then. And when they have a day like that, somehow they always end up like this. 

She’s so tight that he can’t believe this doesn’t hurt, but she grunts and bears down on his hand, desperate to increase the friction of her clit against his hand, lip caught between her teeth and eyes closed in pleasure.

“James, James,” she’s whispering. She’ll deny it afterwards, tell him it must be his overactive imagination at work again, that he’s 007 to her and that’s all he ever will be. She’ll act as though this was a meeting, not a torrid few hours in a West London hotel. She knows it’s her coldness that turns him on, and his arrogant belief that he can break through it. She’s close, he can tell, and so wet - more than just the lube they’d needed, it’s all four of his fingers pressing right there, it’s the feeling of his hand buried up to the knuckles in her cunt.

She hadn’t asked for it directly, she never does, but she’d kept demanding more, more, as he slid a second finger inside her, then a third. In the end, he’d withdrawn, licked his fingers clean lewdly as she watched, fighting to control her reactions, and watched as he’d slathered his hand in lube and eased back into her. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asks in a low voice, determined to make her admit it even though she never, ever does. “You love me fisting your pussy like this. You know what these hands do, what you make them do, and now I’m fucking you with them.”

She’s too overwhelmed to respond verbally, but he feels the flutter of her encroaching orgasm and the way her breath comes in harsh pants. He shifts slightly, so his thumb is far enough in to push her over the edge, and he curls his whole hand until he’s pressing against her, hard and insistent, and she pushes back even harder. 

She nearly breaks his hand when she comes, messy and loud, too far gone to muffle her cries the way she does when he tongues her. His fingers are soaked, his wrist is dripping and they’re going to have to leave a hell of a tip for housekeeping when they check out. She lies on the damp sheets, exhausted and spent, and he stretches out awkwardly at the bottom of the bed, trying to ignore how hard he is. She normally takes care of him first, brisk and no-nonsense as she wanks him off, so he can give her his full attention later, but today she’d been rutting against him the moment they got through the door she’d pushed him up against, his thigh between her legs and her skirt hiked up. He’d pushed her onto the bed and pulled off her knickers, not bothering to undress her before he was between her legs, his mouth making quick work of getting her wet enough to shove his fingers in. 

“Christ,” she mutters. “You’ll be the death of me yet, 007.”

“At least you’ll die happy.”

She snorts. “True.” She shifts, uncomfortably. “We made quite a mess. Was that just me?”

He nods. “You don’t have to,” he says reluctantly. “If I’ve worn you out.”

A spark of indignation flares in her eyes. “Got a high opinion of yourself, haven’t you, Bond?”

He shrugs. “Hard not to, when I’ve got the Head of MI6 in bed as wet as London in March.”

She narrows her eyes. “Cheeky bugger. I’ve a mind to put you over my knee for that. And for that stunt you pulled in Tehran. That could have cost us the entire mission. As it is, I’ve had to grovel to the Americans and I spent a very nasty hour with the PM explaining why I should keep my job.”

“I got the job done,” he grinds out. He’s not in the mood for a bloody lecture, not when he’s just spent the best part of an hour turning her day around. “If I’d followed orders I’d still be kicking my heels on the other side of the world whilst the CIA swooped and and took all the glory. So I’ll skip the lecture, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Let me guess” she asks waspishly, “you’ve got a better idea for what I could do with my mouth?”

He grins wolfishly, but the tension is still there. “I might.”

She settles back on the sheets, adjusting the pillows until she’s comfortably propped up on them. She motions him to join her, and he crawls up the bed obediently. 

He’s kneeling in front of her, his trousers shoved down and his hands on her shoulders as she traces a slow circle around the head of his cock with her tongue.

“Is this what you were doing in Tehran?” she asks conversationally, as though she doesn’t have her hand around the base of his cock and her mouth millimetres away from his leaking prick, so close her lips are wet with it. “Is this why you were so distracted you nearly got killed? Another of your bloody girls?” 

He arches his hips, trying to get her to take him in her mouth, but she resists. 

“Do you really think you deserve this? Everyone knows, you realise. Your reputation speaks for itself - ‘007’s a damn good agent when he’s got his mind on the job, but he has no self control. Show him a nice arse or a good pair of tits and the rulebook gets thrown out of the window.’ What would they say if they could see you now?” She slides her warm, wet, wicked mouth up the length of his cock in one fluid motion, then pulls back before he even has chance to moan at the sensation. “If they knew that what really gets you off is being on your knees for a woman almost twice your age. Then when you get tired of firm skin and waxed-bare cunts, you come home to me, wrinkles, grey hair, sagging and all, and do whatever I ask of you. They’d probably think you’re even more of a pervert than they already do. And,” she adds, as she peppers kisses on achingly hard flesh, “I’m inclined to agree with them.” 

Then her mouth is on him again and he’s thrusting into it, not bothering to hold back because he knows she can keep pace with him. 

“What about you?” he pants savagely. “Does the PM know you come to me for a good hard fuck whenever he gives you a bollocking? That your idea of disciplinary action is to bend me over your lap and tell me what a naughty boy I’ve been?” She chuckles around his cock, and the vibrations in her throat drive him wild. “Does he know how well you suck cock? Is that how you apologise to him?”

She jerks back, savage anger glinting in her eyes and his blood runs cold at how badly he’s misjudged things.

“I’ll play your little games, 007, if it keeps you in line. But if you ever attempt to impugne my professional integrity again, I will cut this off.” 

She squeezes him so hard it brings tears to his eyes and, despite the fact that he’s been hard for the past hour at least, he feels himself soften in her hand. 

“Do you know what would happen if someone found out about us? Do you understand why I’m so careful about covering our tracks? It’s not because I’m ashamed that I’m fucking a co-worker who seems to keep his brains in his dick. It’s because they won’t just fire me, they’ll crucify me. Some idiot who’s still smarting over the fact that I got promoted and he didn’t will spread the story around and everything I’ve done till now, every scrap of success I’ve had, will be eclipsed by the fact that I’m screwing an agent. So forgive me if I don’t find your little jibes funny, 007. It’s just that they sound terribly familiar. If you believe the rumours, I got this job by sleeping with more people during the interview process than you have in your entire bloody career.”

James would very much like to get the names of every person who has ever alleged that Olivia Mansfield made M for any reason other the fact that she’s the most brilliant, ruthless and frankly bloody terrifying person he’s ever met, and make them very, very sorry. The only thing stopping him is the certain knowledge that she got there first.

“I didn’t think,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. I never meant it, I’d never...” he trails off, and knots the sheets in his hand in an effort not to reach out and stroke her hair. She wouldn’t appreciate it, and she doesn’t need it. No matter how hard he thinks he is, M is tougher. And she stays that way by putting stupid little bastards like him in their place. “I just got carried away.”

She nods, accepting his apology. “You do like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” she says dryly.

“You didn’t seem to mind it yourself,” he points out with a tentative grin.

“No,” she murmurs, ruffling his hair in a way that seems almost affectionate. He fights the impulse to nuzzle into her hand. “Perhaps you should try again.”

His hand drops to his groin and he takes himself in hand. “Normally when I want to pay a woman a compliment, I tell them her she has no idea how beautiful she is. But you do. You’re sexy and brilliant and the best thing that’s happened to the Service in years, and the best part is that you know it.” 

He’s shamelessly wanking himself off, and she’s watching him hungrily.

“You know what I thought about after our first meeting? You’d been standing there, in one of those impeccably tailored bloody suits, all crisp professionalism and cheekbones I could impale myself on, telling me that I needed to pull my socks up if I wanted a job in six months’ time, let alone a promotion. You went through every mission, every mistake, and grilled me for three hours. I’d been expecting some stuffy bureaucrat and instead I got the sexiest woman I’d ever met. And when I was lying in bed that night, do you know what I thought? I thought I was out of my depth. I worried I’d never be good enough, never impress you. I told myself back then I’d do anything for you if it meant that you looked at me with respect, not like something you wiped off your shoe.”

He’s babbling like a schoolboy, flushed with more than just exertion. She reaches out to join their hands, lacing her fingers through his as they stroke up and down. 

“I thought you hated me those first few months,” she says softly. “Not that I cared,” she added crisply. “I meant every word and you needed to hear it. But all those hours you spent in the shooting range, the way you smartened up instead of looking like an unshaven lout... I realised it was all for me. Such devotion.” She’s mocking him a little, but he can tell that the memory pleases her. He’s hard as a rock again now that he’s back in her good graces and he arches into her touch, never taking his eyes off her. She extricates her hand and runs it caressingly down his shaft. “You’re not out of the woods yet, 007. Convince me. Convince me that you’re good enough.” 

He’s rubbing himself against her palm frantically . “The next mission,” he says. “I’ll follow your orders to the letter. I’ll bring all my equipment back in one piece. I won’t so much as look at another woman.”

She laughs, the sound harsh in a room quiet except for the noise made by the friction of her hand against his cock and his panting breaths.

“Is that what you think I want? For you to be a good boy and stay out of trouble? Oh, _James_.” The way she purrs his name makes him throb harder than a hundred endearments or dirty words. “Haven’t you worked it out yet? I like you rebellious.” He makes a strangled keening sound, and she laughs, throatily. “You can do all the things I want to do when I’m stuck behind that desk. When I want to tell the PM to go fuck himself instead of that secretary he thinks no one knows he’s screwing on the side. When I’m sick to death of the Americans muscling in on every mission. When I just want to blow the whole world to high heaven and damn the consequences. We could be quite a team, you and I.”

That’s enough to push him over the edge and he’s spilling, hot and sticky, into her hand with a shout. 

They lie quietly together for what seems like hours but can’t be more than five minutes because they’ve only got this hotel room until 2pm. Then she pads into the shower, deliciously unselfconscious about her naked body, and he listens drowsily to the sound of the water and the tune she’s humming to herself. When she exits, flushed and damp and wrapped in a fluffy white bath towel, she jerks her head to the bathroom. 

“Hurry up, Bond. We don’t have all day, and I can’t have you wandering around Vauxhall Cross smelling like you’ve spent half the day in a brothel.” 

He washes her scent off his skin reluctantly, and when he’s done he smells of soap not sex and sweat. She’s dressed and reading her emails on her phone, his clothes picked up from where he’d tossed them on the floor and placed carefully on the bed. She doesn’t look at him. The barriers have gone up, the intimacies they’d shared carefully ignored. He represses a smile at the the thought of the wanton, anarchic woman he’s just spent the best part of two hours with, now carefully hidden away beneath grey suits and crisp white shirts, less S&M than M&S. 

As he smooths down his jacket and straightens his tie, he catches a glimpse of the bright crimson sole of her freshly-polished shoes (they’re in a hotel after all, and M believes in multi-tasking even during an illicit afternoon shag). It’s the colour of blood, of sin, of the silk knickers she’s wearing beneath her prim suit. They’ll walk out of here as if nothing had happened with not even a faux-accidental brush of hands to titillate him, but he’ll remember. 

And, if the quick, appraising look she gives him (and the warmth in her eyes that tells him she likes what she sees) is anything to go by, so will she.  
“Come along, 007,” she snaps. “We’ve got work to do.”

He follows in her wake and they’re pointedly not meeting each other’s eyes in the lift before he realises he left his watch on the bedside table. It doesn’t matter. They’ll be back.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Pipettes song of the same name.


End file.
